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is that I don’t even know how to make sense of it all. I could walk along the shore and be angry as justifiably as I could walk the same shore the next day feeling sad. There’s no right or wrong, really. I’m allowed to feel any of those things — or all of them. But the fact that I seem to have to choose how to feel is a curse. The way I have to decide , knowing that feeling the wrong thing might make me an asshole or a monster? Hell, that’s just one more thing to feel. I’m overwhelmed, Aimee. I don’t want to choose. So right now, if I’m being honest, I don’t want to feel anything.” He rapped his knuckles against the wall, and plaster dust sifted onto his arm. He forced a smile. “Right now, I just want to cut boards and help you rebuild a house.”  
    Aimee watched him, seeming to assess whether he was telling the truth or merely saying what he thought she wanted to hear. Surprisingly, he realized it was the former. He didn’t want to ruminate. He’d come here to bury himself in something new and to become someone else. More than anything, he’d come to Aaron to forget.  
    “Okay,” Aimee said, apparently deciding to believe him. “Luckily, I have a home improvement project that will fit your needs.”  
    “And we should add a picture window,” said Ebon. “For sure, not ‘if we have time.’ The view deserves it.” Again Ebon knocked the wall, looking out on the water. “This is a beautiful place, Aim. Do you even see it for what it is? Or is it mundane to you because it’s always been home?”  
    She looked through the door to nowhere and sighed. “No. It’s beautiful.”  
    Ebon nodded. Strangely, despite his litany to Aimee, he felt better than he had in weeks. Better than he had since the policeman’s call. Better than he had since seeing Mark from Work wheeled through the hospital behind Holly, his pants more open than you’d expect from a car crash.  
    “Where are you getting all the money for this anyway?” Ebon fingered the crumbling plaster. “I’d have tried harder to hook up with you if I’d known you were loaded.”  
    He probably shouldn’t have said that; their official story was that they were friends and had never been anything more. But Aimee smiled. “Dad had a lot of money, and his will only had the two names. Forget about my money. Where are you getting all the time for this?”  
    “I’ve got time off. It’s not a problem.”  
    “‘Time off?’”  
    “Yes.”  
    “Months’ worth of time, maybe.”  
    “As much as it takes.”  
    “That’s a generous work arrangement. Who will coddle clients and remember their dogs’ birthdays in your absence?” He’d told her that bit of miscellany — how keeping track of the most mundane details about his firm’s clients made him a superstar among otherwise mediocre performers — on LiveLyfe. No wonder she’d found it worth repeating; Aimee’s own memory for details was like a sieve.  
    “I am being covered. I will be able to take the time you require without interruption.” He said it officially, deliberately avoiding contractions, as if reading from a pamphlet.
    “How mysterious.”
    “Yes. I’m known for my mystery.”  
    Aimee watched Ebon for another beat, then turned back toward the hallway, leaving the nowhere door open. The top half was glass (or clear plastic — Ebon didn’t know; he wasn’t exactly the home improvement expert he was impersonating during his stay), and the lower half was a screen. A pleasant early autumn breeze wafted into the room behind them, tinged with the scent of salt and leaves. Before leaving the room, she put her hands on her hips and looked around, nodded with apparent satisfaction, and led the way back out.  
    Ebon took a quick look of his own before following, wondering how she could be so blasé about the renovation project of the decade. But the floor wasn’t as bad as he’d thought, now that he looked again, and while the plaster was worn